Goodbye, Charlie
by SpecialParanoia
Summary: Never before had Alan Eppes heard anything so utterly perverse. Oneshot


**A/N:** I admit, this is my first Numb3rs fic. Just a little one-shot. The first two lines came to me one night and just woulnd't leave me alone, so I gave in and let them have their way. It's certainly not my best work, but hopefully it's enjoyable enough. Fair warning, though- It's not a happy story.

I don't know what's going on with that big space up above ( ), but it won't go away. Not that it makes any difference- I just felt I had to say something for posterity's sake. And, it's really annoying me...

**Disclaimer:** In my dreams? Most certainly. Otherwise...? Sadly, it appears I do not own them.

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_Organ donor._

Never before had Alan Eppes heard anything so utterly perverse. One little orange sticker, something that had evoked so much pride in him as a father, suddenly looked hideous and obscene as it glared up at him from its spot next to his son's smiling face, taunting him. It had looked so innocent before- so _simple_. Nothing was that simple, he knew now.

Yes, he'd understood the significance of what his boy was doing at the time, had even discussed it with him one evening with a certain stubborn sibling as they'd pushed him into making this decision, to give life to others in the event that his own couldn't be saved. But he'd done this never thinking it would ever actually happen. That it ever _could_ happen. Even with such a dangerous job as Don's, Alan had never once given thought to the possibility of losing one of his children, of having to make this kind of choice. He'd accepted the risks, and prayed every night to anyone or anything that would listen to keep his oldest safe- to keep Charlie safe, too, now that he was regularly consulting for his brother- and though he'd added 'healthy and alive' to those prayers more times than he could count, he never once truly considered their mortality. What parent would? His boys were going to grow old together, raise families, grieve for their father when the time came, retire, have grandchildren... die of old age. It's just the way things work. The natural order. Fathers were _not_ supposed to bury their sons.

And yet, here he was. Standing alone over a stiff, cold hospital bed listening to the clicks and whirs and beeps, the soft whooshing of air pumping into unresponsive lungs, gripping Charlie's fingers as tightly as he could as if he could somehow squeeze a little life back into them. Will those fingers to twitch, just a little. Bleed his own life into his baby boy. It was no use.

Charlie was beyond that, now. Beyond saving. Already Alan could feel the distinct absence of Charlie's seemingly boundless frenetic energy, and it scared him. If he could feel that so soon through a thick fog of pure emotional shock, what would the house be like once it really sank in? '_Charlie's dead.'_ He could repeat it as many times as he liked, but they were still just words. This stifling absence of energetic static in the air could be as scary as it wanted to be, but until he went home to Charlie's empty house- until he saw the pain in Don's eyes, waited up all night for a mathematician that would never come home- until Charlie was put to rest, he would never really understand them.

_Accident. Trauma. Brain dead... _All just words. Ugly, painful, cruel words, but still meaningless for the time being. Through the doctor's entire speech they'd just blurred together, an endless stream of senseless noise blending colourfully with the rushing in his ears. Donny had heard them, though. He'd understood perfectly fine, and with each passing second his face had gone a shade paler, his jaw hung a fraction lower. His pain was tangible, radiating out in waves, and Alan had nearly had a heart attack when Don's legs buckled beneath him as he came dangerously close to fainting. Still, through all of it, nothing registered as anything but noise. White noise humming through his brain. Then, towards the end, something finally sifted through the haze.

_Organ donor._

Alan had simply sat there, his own mouth hanging open in surprise. It took nearly a full minute, during which for the first time in his life, he'd ignored Don's anguished exclamation and hitching gasps, to realize he'd missed something. The way the doctor was staring, he was apparently waiting for an answer to a question Alan hadn't heard asked. With a patience and calm one could only possess after several similar encounters, the doctor laid a soothing hand on his arm and repeated himself softly.

_Next of kin. Organ donor. Honour your son's wishes..._

Maybe that's what did it- what pushed Don over the edge. When were they ever _Charlie's_ wishes? The very idea had made him uncomfortable. Nervous. Don had never understood much about his baby brother, and he certainly didn't bother to pretend he did, but he knew enough to sympathize with Charlie's hesitant unease. After their mother's death, once they'd been working together for a little while, Don had begun to glean a little insight into his brother's complicated psyche. What he'd learned startled him- they weren't all that different. Stubbornness and an obsessive passion for their work aside, both had an amazing penchant for guilt. Once either got the idea stuck in their head that something was their fault, nothing short of a miracle could convince them otherwise. It was a complex Alan could somewhat understand, even if he didn't entirely agree, for he knew that right now Don was thinking the same thing he was- **these were never Charlie's wishes**. Father and brother had pushed him into this, and now _they_ had to deal with the consequences; make the most painful decision of their lives.

Except... Don had gone, and Alan was left alone to do this.

The implications of Charlie's death hit Don fast and hard, his mood changing swiftly from despair to fear, from fear to anger, all in the blink of an eye. With a muttered curse he'd all but lunged from the blue plastic chair and stormed out, shouting back over his shoulder that _he_ sure as hell wasn't doing it.

That had only been ten minutes ago. And for the past nine, he'd been here with Charlie. '_No- not Charlie'._ He didn't know what to call this... this _body,_ but it wasn't Charlie. Not anymore. Whatever lay there was a sad mockery of his son, a half-alive, half-dead **_thing_** that broke his heart.

'_Go ahead. Cut him open. Harvest him like crops from the field. That's what you people call it, isn't it? "Harvesting the organs"? You might as well take me, while you're at it. I wouldn't bother with my heart, though- I'm pretty sure it's broken to pieces...'_

Why did they even bother to call it a choice? Once someone signed that card, affixed that sticker to their license, the decision had been made. Asking the next of kin was really just a formality. Procedure. They could refuse, but most did not out of respect for their loved one. In a way, that was precisely what Alan had to do. Make the right choice out of respect for Charlie. His little boy would never want to be kept alive in this state, and his father couldn't blame him. It was degrading at best, pointless at worst. Dead was dead, and Charlie would never want his family to suffer over him- which they undoubtedly would, watching him day after day for a miracle that would never come. No, this was the right choice. For all of them.

With a deep, shaking sigh, Alan gently let go of those lifeless fingers and bent down to lay a tender kiss upon his son's cool brow.

"Goodbye, Charlie." he whispered, running his fingers through those soft brown curls one last time. It didn't feel like enough, but he had to be strong right now, and he knew he couldn't otherwise. So, with that, Alan Eppes straightened and left the room with a brief gesture toward the doctor. '_Go ahead. Do what you have to do, and I'll do what I have to.'_ There was nothing that could be done for Charlie, now. But he **could** help Donnie, and that's exactly what he was going to do.


End file.
